An Awkward Courtship
by mmmmmaple
Summary: Mathias is going to make this work. No, really, Matthew will make a beautiful wife. Wherein Matthew tries to tell himself it's just a land thing (that this will pass, so be nice and make peace) and Mathias tries to make it perfectly clear that they are going to be married for the foreseeable future. Rated M for NSFW.
1. Prologue

_This fic is gonna be a long one, so hunker down and get ready. Hans Island, I appreciate you.  
_

_**Denmark/Canada** (some Netherlands and Canada)_

_Warning Sign: sex, violence, drugs, some angst, potentially out of character_

_I do not own Hetalia.  
_

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

Mathias stands at the door with a lump in his throat. Hurriedly graceless, he rings the doorbell and waits. When there is no answer, he rings again. The windows are illuminated by a warm glow, which means someone has to be home, so what could be taking so long? Frowning, he rings a third time; keeping a guest waiting is not in keeping with the Canadian's polite nature.

His eyes gleam at the sound of a slow shuffle and when the door opens, just an excruciatingly slow sliver, to reveal a sliver of the cozy and warm interior of the townhouse. It isn't until he feels an insistent tug at the hem of his pants that his gaze travels down the wall, past the rich hardwood floors, and directly into a pair of gleaming aviators. He snorts his disbelief and crouches down to face the polar bear.

"Not pizza man," the bear states in an airy voice, slowly cocking his head. "Who?"

Mathias grins despite his confusion and ruffles the bear's fur. "Mathias, but maybe you know me as Mister Denmark."

"No pizza?"

"No pizza," he confirms. "But that sounds like a hell of an idea right now. Is Canada in?"

The bear rises onto his back feet and the sunglasses slip down his muzzle. "Who?"

"Little bear," Mathias starts as everything clicks in his mind; the smell, the sunglasses at night - as incredulous as it is hilarious, he can't help but ask, "are you _stoned_?"

"No, I'm Kumajiro," he says and ponderously waves a paw at himself.

Surely Canada would not leave his precious bear at home alone for long. (He has heard rumours of the bear's voracious appetite extending to include shoes in a hungry spell.) Much though Mathias wants to invite himself to bask in the comfort of the foyer, he is willing to settle for a loud laugh as he shifts his weight in his crouched stance. "Is Mister Canada here?" he articulates clearly.

A deep voice echoes from the home, sparing Mathias any further questions from the unhelpful bear. "Who is it, Kumajiro?"

Mathias looks up in confusion and irritation. He knows that voice, and it most certainly does _not_ belong to Canada.

"Not pizza," Kumajiro calls back loudly, pushing the glasses back up on his muzzle, and bids Mathias farewell by shuffling away.

Mathias frowns at the bear's retreating form, only to perk up at the brief sound of heavy footsteps descending stairs. He pushes the door open a touch more, only to see the tall and half-naked representative of Netherlands round the corner.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mathias stands up in a flash with his hands on his hips and narrowed eyes.

"He was right, you're not the pizza guy," Lars responds flatly and returns the stare for a moment before something catches his attention. He adjusts a picture frame and blows off a speck of dust from the ledge. With a smirk, he looks back to Mathias, the green of his eyes thoroughly overshadowed by the heavy dilation of his pupils. "Matthew's home, but I don't think he's very interested in seeing anyone right now."

"I need to see him. We have issues to discuss, right? And you know what it's like at meetings, you can't even see the poor bastard, especially not when he sits next to America. Also," he wrinkles his nose and pauses for breath, "why can you see him but I can't?"

"Because we're busy," comes the throaty insinuation. Mathias' jaw twitches; Lars has purposefully purred the open-ended statement knowing full well what he would think. Lars smiles slowly and offers a small chuckle. Approaching the door with a hand slipped casually in the pocket of his stylish trousers, he leans so close to Mathias that their shoulders nearly touch.

"Busy with what?" he asks through clenched teeth. "You know, what you're doing isn't even legal in this country, yeah?"

A shrug is the extent of Lars' reply. His smirk does not disappear.

"And why aren't you wearing a shirt_?_ A guy could freeze his balls off out here!"

Lars runs his hand roughly through his hair and presses his muscular form even closer, murmuring in a way that makes Mathias strongly inclined to punch him in the throat. "Maybe the more prudent question would be why am I wearing pants? Or even," his deep voice dips into a suggestive growl, "_what is Matthew wearing_?"

"You're being such a dick," Mathias spits, hurt, reflexively feeling for his battleaxe. He and Lars are usually on good terms, but right now his blood boils with the need to at least give the other nation a huge black eye; it wouldn't be the first time they had gotten into a fight, and it wouldn't really solve anything, but it would certainly make him feel a lot better. It is not every day that Denmark makes house calls.

_Okay, so maybe I didn't give advanced notice, but come on, it isn't as if Canada actually makes plans_.

Much to the Dane's contentment, Lars takes a step back. Their gazes lock, leaving Mathias to seethe as catlike eyes regard him coolly.

"I really don't think Matt wants to talk to you right now. Anything you have to say should be saved for official channels or reserved for meetings."

He grits his teeth. "I'm like _this_ close to punching you in the nose."

"That's exactly why I'm not letting you in," Lars snorts.

"It's not even your house!" Where, oh where, is his axe? And, arguably of more importance, where is Canada? "You're not even going to let him tell me to get the hell out for himself? HEY CANADA, MIND IF I COME IN?"

Silence reigns as Lars effectively blocks the doorway and watches Mathias' growing irritation with amusement, which only serves to fuel the fire. Mathias glowers and takes a deep breath for another energetic holler. "OR ARE YOU JUST GONNA LET YOUR BOYFRIEND DO ALL THE TALKING?"

Lars tsks and shakes his head. "Do you really think that by implying that Matt is weak, you will get him to rise to your bait?"

"Right," Mathias immediately changes gears with a twinkle in his eye. "HEY CANADA! YOUR BEER SUCKS! MAPLE SYRUP IS DISGUSTING! HOCKEY IS STU- wait - what?"

Lars gives him a blank, unnerving stare. Mathias' stomach churns with unease as his mind whirrs over the unwanted implications. _Perhaps Canada has gotten under my skin lately, but why is that such a damn bother? Other than him being a passive-aggressive little bastard, which really isn't that much of a surprise. So, then..._ Just the thought - so sudden and unwelcome, and so very _vivid_ - of Canada's slender hips bruising under the pressure of those capable fingers... his hands curl into fists and his breath falls short.

"Why," Mathias grumbles and grabs Lars hard by the shoulders, earning him not so much as a nonplussed blink. "_Why_ won't you deny it?"

"Deny what?" Lars asks, angering Mathias all the more because he knows that his grip has to hurt, but the brunette puts up no resistance.

He knows that if it were to come to blows, the two of them could have a pretty nasty go of it so he desperately tries to calm himself in the name of _good diplomatic relations_. And because he's pretty sure he knows who Matthew will side with, but he pushes the thought aside irritably.

"Boyfriend," he says shortly, willing his fingers to stop digging into Lars' biceps. When his efforts prove to be unsuccessful, Mathias takes a deep inhale and focuses his attention back to the situation.

"Should I?" The Dutchman rolls his defined shoulders and tilts his head. Mathias can see himself reflected in the glassy green orbs and the snarl on his face catches him completely off-guard. When he doesn't respond, Lars sighs. "Or do I need to explain it to you in small words?"

"_Enlighten me_."

"Canada and Netherlands are close."

"Yes. And?"

There's no mistaking the slightly pitying smile as he says, "_very_ close, believe me."

Mathias' grip loosens as his mind reels. The ground below his feet threatens to swallow him whole and the feeling, the nauseating and devastating feeling of betrayal, is revolting. "You're fucking Canada."

"I'm fucking _Matthew_, and we do a hell of a lot more than that."

Mathias tries to collect himself and when he does speak, the words are hollow, just a response for the sake of responding. "Sex and drugs?"

"They do go well together," Lars admits with a deep chuckle. "But like I said, it's more. Think laughter, breakfast in bed, trust. The kind of things that you can't _force_."

The pointed words stab at the Dane and his mouth goes dry. "Lars, I..."

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"Mmm," Lars responds neutrally, on guard but with no provocation in his stance. He gives Mathias a moment to collect himself, which is perhaps his way of being kind. "Kumajiro isn't a fan of loud intruders. I doubt you want to feel a polar bear bite."

"You, a polar bear, anyone else that little boy is hiding behind?" he hisses, hating that he can't cover the venom in his voice with typical levity.

Lars smiles as he pushes Matthias onto the step and begins to shut the door. "If you don't know the kind of support system he has, then you clearly need to pay a bit more attention. Goodnight, Mathias." An anticlimactic click of the door shutting leaves the nation representative standing on the icy front porch for far longer than he would ever admit before he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and spins to leave.


	2. First

_Thank you so very much to those of you who have already favourited and/or followed. I'm a little overwhelmed and completely grateful. I plan on having a chapter up each month, and knowing that there are people out there who are actually reading it... it makes me want to finish this story. (I am notoriously bad at starting things and not finishing them.)_

_'The true North, strong and free' is part of the Canadian national anthem. There is a 100% chance that Alfred would never use it when speaking to his brother, but he would use it in his defense. _

* * *

**An Awkward Courtship**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

There is always nation works that needs to be done, so it is with that in mind that Matthias strives to spend each passing year in focusing on Denmark's interests and industry rather than on one particular soft-spoken nation. And while centuries may have softened his dominating nature, where Canada - no, Matthew Williams - is involved, an old flicker kindles in the pit of his stomach, in the back of his mind, in the rush of blood in his veins.

Because, as it turns out, Canada - Matthew - _is_ involved. Very much so, almost everywhere he looks. The boy may give horribly boring speeches at meetings, but under the bland facade, his involvement lies just about everywhere.

"Of course he's involved with environmental concerns, being such a big, cold, emission-happy country." Matthias stabs his pen into an innocent document and carves his signature with pleasure as he leans over the polished wood of his desk before shuffling the papers aside and tossing his head back against the leather cushioning of his chair.

"But what I don't get is..." Matthias trails off as he looks around his office, abruptly aware of an overwhelming fatigue, the kind of weariness that seeps into one's bones: complete emotional exhaustion. A large clock on the wall proclaims it to be the early hours of the morning. The house is cold and painfully empty.

He hasn't even had a beer yet.

Steepling his fingers along the bridge of his nose, Mathias decides that nothing productive can come from this, so he grins and grips his desk as he stands up excitedly. "I'm way too young to feel this old!" he declares and heads to the fridge.

Twenty minutes and fourteen beers later, Matthias finally relaxed into the folds of his comfortable couch with the pleasant beginnings of a buzz. He would rather eat dirt than do what he is considering doing, but nonetheless, he takes his phone out and stares at his contact list with all of the awkwardness due of someone who is about to make a really uncomfortable phone call.

He snorts and decides to text.

03:12

**Norge**

**Norge**

**Norge**

**Are you awake Luk?**

03:13

**Luk Luk Luk Luk Luk.**

No response? That's okay, he would rather talk to Lukas in person, anyway. Time for reinforcements.

03:16

**I'm fucked.**

Well, that sums it up pretty well. His smile meets the cool glass of a bottle and he downs the bubbly liquid with a happy sigh and reclines deeper into the cushions.

The phone buzzes before he has reached for the remote. Surprised, he picks it up.

03:18

**Perhaps, if you had woken Tino. What do you want?**

Any stress dissipates as Mathias shoves a hand through his hair and feels a pleasant tingle on his scalp as he pulls slightly. But it is a fair question, what does he want? He inhales.

03:21

**Just come over here and beat the shit out of me.**

He exhales; Mathias infrequently asks for help, for _real_ help, but this is fairly close to driving him out of his mind. His group of friends who would come to his aid about something like this is limited to a select few. Berwald is fairly neutral territory when it comes to Canada and he can be trusted for decent, solid council. (Or a decent, solid smack-down, depending.)

Minutes later, there is a single knock on the door. Matthias smiles wryly and springs up from the couch.

"Berwald, buddy!" he exclaims and throws an arm around the tall Swede. "I'm sure you still pack a mean punch. You ready, Svierge? Lay it on me."

Berwald allows himself to be pulled into the house before he gracefully slips from Mathias' grip and adjusts his woolen turtleneck. He gazes levelly at Mathias, his irises contrasting with bloodshot to create an unparalleled shade of teal behind the square frames. Walking to the couch, he peers impassively at the pile of beer bottles.

"Did I wake you?" the Dane can't help but ask with a smirk.

"Just gettin' back to sleep. Peter. Nightmares." Berwald directs his unnerving glare back to Matthias and asks, "wh't d'ye want, M'thias? Must be import'nt."

Throwing Berwald his most sincere and charming grin, Mathias flings himself back into the cushions, wrapping his hand around another bottle. He silently offers one to his stern guest, who accepts. Mathias does not speak; instead, he stares out of the window and into the darkness outside.

"Canada," Berwald states at last.

Mathias snaps to attention and faces the Swede; and in his hands, the bottle looks like a toy.

"Yeah." The Dane nods and runs his hand through his hair again, but this time it is an absent and agitated gesture.

"Y'll figure it out."

He bites back a bark of a laugh. "I've been trying. Did you know that Lars goes to his house and they get baked and they fuck and the whole damn nation of the Netherlands probably dresses up Canada in kinky maid's dresses and makes him - oh, oh who _knows_ - clean the house with a feather duster, probably - and in the meantime I can't s_leep_. You know what I do?" his laugh is an unfamiliar growl. Berwald blinks.

"I sit in my house instead of going out like everyone else in the whole world except for Lars and Canada and I read reports about everything just because I want to see his name. Because that's the only way I can - what do I even care? Why does he get under my skin like this? The closest I've gotten to even talking to him has been spit-balling his brother! And those two are nothing alike - I don't see why everyone gets them confused because at least America has a _backbone_."

Berwald drains his beer contemplatively and holds his hand out for another as Mathias tosses a bottle to him and slings an arm over his face. He groans his frustration into his sleeve; the noise is frustratingly pathetic and he knows it. He has so much energy, so much uncomfortable, manic energy, which makes him feel compelled to test the limits of his car's horsepower, or demolish a building, or simply take Matthew by the hand and watch a smile and slow blush cover his face.

"I mean... it-it's just a tiny patch of dirt for him! He's the second-largest country in the world. Doesn't he have enough? Can he not just let me have what is mine anyway?"

_Can he not just leave me alone?_

The Swede grunts noncommittally.

His voice is a hoarse groan. "Have you seen him? Really looked, I mean. What am I supposed to do with myself when I look over and... and I never used to see him, but now, he's all I can focus on - I can't look away even when I want to. He's just so - so innocent and so damn pure and it's all a lie. It's a conspiracy against the world!"

"I just want to hate him. So much. Him and his bear. He's such a big country and he has such a sweet face and how - how does that not just make everyone want to storm his borders?"

Berwald coughs lightly, but otherwise remains silent and allows the tirade to continue.

His voice is bitter, but he can't help himself; the Canadian's smiling face, golden hair, and soulful violet eyes are burned into his brain. "It makes my heart pump. Like it used to. Vinland could have been ours, mine, Sve, _mine_, just should have fought harder."

"How is it that he keeps everyone out? Does he -" the words spill forth, unbidden and unwanted and unstoppable - "does he use that perfect little body to keep Russia happy? How much moaning and grinding does it take? And when he gained independence - not even a whimper from the British Empire - who did he have to spread his legs for back then? Hm? And his brother - constantly running around after America and cleaning up his messes, giving him everything he wants to keep him happy. How far does that go? I mean, America has one hell of an appetite and Canada," he groans. "Canada can give him _everything_."

As if able to see the very unfamiliar despair that radiates from Mathias, Berwald moves slightly closer and rests a hand stiffly on his shoulder. "Mhm," he mutters.

Matthias looks up and is at once reassured and feeling a strange sense of connection. "Do you feel like this? About Tino? Did you dream about decapitating me and anyone else who threatened him?"

Berwald says nothing, but does not move his hand.

"I thought so," Matthias says quietly.

"It goes further th'n a piece of land," the Swede comments, voice deep and low. "Border d'putes happen all th' time. 'S different."

Matthias twitches and gazes at his knees. "It fucking hurts, Sve. And I can handle pain."

"I know."

"Like, stab me in the chest and leave me to be mauled by polar bears and throw what's left into the Arctic ocean kind of hurts."

"'S called love."

Mathias raises his gaze to the wall.

"I'm practically engaged to the guy - no, I'm _really _practically engaged to the guy - and all I want to do is bathe in the blood of everyone he's close to because I'm not close to him. I'm pretty sure that times have changed and now that's considered sort of a criminal offense, or insane, or something."

"Y' could try talking to Matthew."

"But _Matthew_-"

"-is a grown man 'n he c'n make his own decisions."

"Svierge..."

The giant Swede is already standing and getting ready to leave. "Y'r welcome. T'lk to him 'r don't, but no more texts."

Before Mathias can speak, Berwald is already gone.

* * *

It had taken an hour and a half for the Cuban to notice his signals, one paper airplane with 'I'm so bored!' written on its wings, said paper airplane crushed angrily and hurled at Alfred's head, one confused brother, and forty more minutes before Javier actually looked at him.

Worth it.

**B-O-R-E-D**

His lashes fluttering madly, Matthew grins as Javier finally understands his strange winking version of Morse code. The Cuban snorts and scribbles on a paper, balls it up, and lobs it over the table.

"If all nations would refrain from throwing -" Arthur shoots a narrow-eyed gaze around the room at the suspects - "_things_, we will continue this meeting as scheduled."

Matthew and Javier roll their eyes, and they are not alone. Alfred, seated to his twin's immediate right, wads up a hastily-scrawled note and throws it across the eight-inch gap at Matthew's head so hard that it almost bends the frame of his glasses. The Canadian sends him a glare but smooths open both notes.

_Yo quiero el helado. Ice cream shop on the corner at break?_

And:

_I'll hold your hand and make popcorn if you wanna have a horrorthon with me next weekend._

A sleepy growl rumbles from under the table at Matthew's leg twitch. "Sorry, Kumajimi," he whispers to soothe the grumpy bear.

**S-I **the Canadian winks back and finishes with a big blinking flourish. Javier gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up and Matthew hopes he won't forget this exchange by the time lunch rolls around; he could really go for some ice cream.

_Where would I be without you, Al. So kind._ Matthew scrawls and tosses the note back. Alfred snatches it and shines a beaming grin at his brother. Matthew sighs but smiles. Alfred would probably forget and spend the weekend playing games with Tony, anyway, but it is worth it to humour him; he has a difficult time saying no to the brother he loves and does what he can to keep that big, silly smile on his face.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Matthew checks the message furtively under the table with some surprise as he finds it to be from Francis. Despite his discomfort with the sudden popularity, a smile hovers on his lips as he reads it whilst Arthur monotonously reviews statistics.

11:26

**Why all the notes? Is something exciting happening? Lovino has fallen asleep and Romano ignores me.**

11:28

**Rien. Ice cream and horror movies.**

Matthew watches as Francis' interest sours; he flips his hair and wrinkles his nose at Matthew, who smiles in return. Something seems to catch Francis' eye, as he quickly dives back under the table.

11:30

**You are quite popular today, non?**

Matthew frowns and pouts somewhat, only to be sent another text.

11:31

**Keep pouting like that, cheri. It makes me want to do naughty things to you.**

With a very deliberate eye-roll, Matthew decides to steadfastly ignore Francis for the rest of the meeting. But something is not sitting quite right, come to think of it. He checks under the table; Kumajiro is safe and sound, issuing tiny snuffled snores. Smiling, Matthew lifts the sleeping polar bear onto his lap. If Kumajiro is dreaming, why does he feel almost as if someone is observing him.

_Popular?_

Matthew scans the table, but everyone seems to be acting normally, or as normally as could be expected for them. He tries to shrug off the thoroughly discomforting feeling of being _watched_, but still cannot resist leaning over and poking his brother in the side.

"Al," he whispers too softly and too quietly, for the American neither feels nor hears him. Matthew groans and jabs his brother again. "Al!"

Alfred squirms uncomfortably before he turns a pair of brilliant, disarming blue eyes toward his twin.

"'Sup, dude?"

Arthur stares at the pair exasperatedly. Matthew's panic must show on his face because Alfred's benevolent gaze turns into a look of mild concern. "Mattie? What's wrong?"

Matthew can only shake his head mutely. The feeling of being watched has seriously intensified, provoking an unpleasant shiver along his body. Alfred grabs at his dangling hand and the sudden encapsulating warmth combined with his freakish strength causes Matthew's breath to hitch.

"What's wrong, bro?" Alfred demands in what was probably supposed to be a quiet voice. "We don't gotta watch scary movies if you're too freaked."

"Don't you feel that?" Matthew whimpers. Alfred gave him an inquisitive look and shrugs.

"Al - Al, someone's watching me," he mutters urgently, feeling entirely foolish.

Alfred dutifully directs his gaze over his brother's head and scans the table. His face doesn't change, but his grip tightens on Matthew's hand. The Canadian has a sudden, horrible premonition of his twin leaping up, dragging him onto the table, and shouting for everyone to stop creeping his brother out, or they would taste American pain - namely a bunch of missiles shoved up their asses. Thankfully, Alfred operates in stealth mode as he assesses nation to nation.

Matthew is drawn close against his superpower of a twin's side. Alfred is tense, which makes him tense, and together, their grips are tight. "Don't worry about it, Matt. Whatever this is, I'll take care of it," Alfred promises in a forced voice.

His eyes widen. For once, Matthew doesn't want to argue that he can take care of himself, not now, not about this. He feels as though his stomach is turning and he has to force his breathing to stay normal. For the sake of being polite, he shakes his head and mumbles, "really, Al, I'm fine. I'm sure I'm just imagining things."

Alfred's jaw sets resolutely. With extremely strong fingers digging into Matthew's bicep in what he supposes to be a reassuring one-armed hug, Alfred says, "yeah, no worries, maple freak."

"America! I say, what on earth are you doing to your brother?"

"_Oui_, indeed, what is happening?"

"This is hardly the time to get sidetracked - "

"Oh _come on_ - "

"LUNCH!" Javier hollers loudly and, just like that, the meeting is adjourned, ice cream is enjoyed, and Matthew writes the episode off as just another typical meeting.

* * *

"_What the fuck, man_."

Air robbed from his lungs, Mathias flies into the wall. One arm is pinned across his shoulders, threatening his windpipe. His vision swims but Alfred's angry face is inescapable, and the stormy eyes are far more frightening than the prospect of being nuked.

"What's wrong," he throws up his hands against the wall and offers a smile, "run out of hamburgers?"

Alfred doesn't take the bait, but his forearm tenses viciously. "What were you trying to do to The True North Strong and Free?" he growls. "Freak him out? Because mission accomplished, asshole."

Matthias glares through his grin and shifts slightly, only to feel America respond immediately by pressing his arm even closer to his throat. He is playing with fire - one of the biggest fires, by far, but he isn't about to back down.

"I'm not sure what you mean, America." He winks playfully and in an instant, Mathias is breathing dust as Alfred's fist sails not an inch past his face and clear through the wall.

"How about you call me _Alfred_."

Damn, the boy is mad. Matthias smiles and gingerly dusted off the front of his jacket as best as he can, tsking. "Alfred, I really don't know what you're talking about." A heartbeat. The American isn't fooled. "But you could relax, yeah? I'm no threat to your brother."

Alfred shoots Mathias a glare that would probably give a regular human a heart attack. "You're so full of it."

"Maybe," Mathias murmurs happily and stares back as Alfred wipes his glasses clean with his free hand. "I should have guessed I'd meet a little resistance along the way."

"Along the way to what?" he growls.

"Is this your weird way of asking me about my intentions with Canada?"

Alfred coils, ready to strike, but seems to think better of it. In an impressive display of self-control, he settles for releasing Mathias and folding his arms over his chest. Matthias wants to laugh - the American has no idea what he's talking about.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Alfred confirms, voice ripe with suspicion. "But now that you mention it, what the fuck do you want with my brother?"

His stomach curdles with irritation, frustration, anger, confusion, and too many other feelings to name. "You don't even know," he says, forcing a smile onto his face as he looks at Alfred coyly.

"That's why I'm asking you nicely." Mathias doesn't want to know what the threat implies and, surprisingly, Alfred does not care to elaborate.

The Dane opens his mouth, but the words just won't come out. His heart races, but it's not from the American threat.

"Do you... have a _thing_ for Mattie?" Alfred asks at length. "'Cause you've got a weird way of showing it, man."

Mathias laughs and throws his hands behind his head, relaxing against the dusty wall. "You could say that!"

Alfred's eyes narrow. "Listen. Matt's got enough crazy going on without dating it."

_I will smite him, by Odin, I will cut his head off and send it to Canada to show him my strength, to show him what happens to those who seek to separate us._

His eyelids flutter closed for a moment as he takes a deep breath.

_Wait, no._

_No. _

_Well, maybe._

"I mean, you even called him 'Canada'." Mathias opens his eyes to a dusty American's resolutely unhappy face. His mind stills its fever. Alfred glares. "So let me get this straight - you have a _thing_ for my brother, but you can't even call him by his name? Have you even spoken to him?"

"No," Mathias admits hoarsely, dry-mouthed.

This catches Alfred by surprise. For a long moment, the two blue-eyed blondes stand awkwardly in the settling dust of the ruined wall and process their thoughts. It is Alfred who breaks the silence first. "Okay, step number one with Mattie - don't freak him out. Try, oh, I dunno, talking to him?"

Mathias wants to groan, protest, anything really, to tell the young American that he doesn't need his help_, _but he can't. His hands bunch into useless fists at his side.

"I don't know why you wanna pursue him. I mean, I know why, but I don't know why _you _-"

"How do you not know? We have been having a border dispute for _years_!" Restraint abandoned, Mathias growls, blood hot, body shaking. It is Alfred's turn to be speechless. "If you really cared about Canada, you would know something like that. You would pay attention to him in meetings, even if his presentations are mostly shit. You would know that you can hardly turn a corner on the planet without seeing a part of him there. You would _care_ to find out, because for someone who claims to love the boy, you don't seem know anything about him!"

Alfred's reaction is seriously unexpected; he quivers with rage, but his eyes sparkle with misery. He rolls his shoulders and stands up straight. Mathias can only watch with fascination. He has heard that Canada could make America cry, but are the twins really so close that a few words could cut that deep? Mathias looks at the floor, scuffs his foot against it absently. How could just the thought of Canada make him want to rip people limb from limb in one moment and make him feel such wretchedness in another?

"You have a point," Alfred admits softly as he gazes at the hole he made in the wall. "Even Matthew forgets about himself, I think."

He swallows before continuing. "You wouldn't know it, but he - he's got a lot going on. He talks in his sleep about all of the voices, because he hears them when he doesn't wanna. Hasn't learned how to deal with it selectively, ya know? And he's so sweet and so impossible, he wants to listen to 'em all. You know what that'll do?" Alfred's voice takes on an unnerving, steely tone. "It'll eat you up. It's just - it's just tough to watch it happen."

"Hey, lighten up," Mathias murmurs, patting Alfred gently on the shoulder, brow furrowed.

"So, uh, so maybe Mattie deserves someone who remembers him. And who knows, like, what's going on. You might not have a clue, but I guess you kind of, I mean, that's what everyone deserves, right? Yeah. That's what he deserves. So, I'm just gonna go now."

Mathias waves cheerfully as Alfred walks away, hiding the horrible pangs in his heart and his labored breathing.

"But hey," Alfred calls, cranes around, "if you freak Mattie out one more time, I will cock-block you for the rest of your life, so help me."

"I don't doubt it," Mathias' laughter echoes the hall as both men turn away.

* * *

"Stay here, okay? I'll just be gone for a little while."

Warm brown eyes peer down the white snout as Kumajiro looks up from his giant coho salmon. "Who?"

"Canada."

"Oh. Okay. Bring more fish or I might just eat your shoes."

After wiping a glob of fat off the little bear's muzzle affectionately, Matthew smiles as he washes his hands. He nervously pulls at the sleeve of his nice suit (the one that Francis had suggested he buy) and hopes he will blend in. With a farewell wave to the oblivious polar bear, Matthew steps out the door and locks it behind him absently.

He takes a deep breath and wills himself to just sort of _appear_ in St. Petersburg.

Because, honestly, where else is the second-largest country supposed to run to when he needs to escape himself?

The hollow moon is replaced with bright, fluffy clouds of the next day as Matthew's front porch vibrates into the side of a giant red church. His body still swimming into this new reality, he takes a hesitant step forward; the first step is always the most nauseating, particularly for Matthew - the bigger the country, the more motion-sick they get, at least that's what Alfred suggests from time to time.

The church is cool to the touch as he runs his fingers along the smooth stonework, taking a few more tentative steps until he winds up at a small bench. Matthew sits, blinking at the dappled shadows that play over his face, his knees, the ground, of leaves from overhead branches.

Gratified, he faces beautiful city, so old-world that he twinges with subtle jealousy. The younger nation cannot help but fret his flaxen hair between his fingers - the city is stunning, the perfect place in which to get lost.

Matthew relaxes into the rigidness of the bench and closes his eyes, letting the well-dressed, serious citizens brush past him. He dozes off, only to awaken minutes later as a heavy hand rests gently on his shoulder.

"Matvei?" comes the lilting voice. Matthew opens his eyes, overwhelmed. How, in all of Russia, had Russia found him? He wasn't even in the capital!

"Matvei, it is such a surprise to see you in my beautiful city."

Matthew freezes as Ivan's hand shifts slightly and his weight takes over the other half of the bench with careless ease. The long woolen jacket, the signature scarf: he meets Russia's inquisitive violet gaze.

"I'm-I'm not here on official business," he manages and Ivan's smile brightens.

"This much is obvious, da? You only speak of business at meetings or communicate by email. Your espionage is usually somewhat less..." he quirks a snowy brow, amused. "Evident."

Matthew smiles at the compliment. "I'm not here to spy."

Ivan squeezes his shoulder, and the grip is strong and firm (like Alfred's, he decides, but also so very different. Anything less than a bone-crushing squeeze is a welcome change). The gloved hand falls away, back to Ivan's side as he smiles again.

"It was only teasing - " _half-teasing, at best_, Matthew thinks - "but maybe you will call me the next time you want to come to my country without going through border security?"

"I'm sorry, Russia," Matthew concedes, his voice giving way slightly, and the slip does not go unnoticed by Russia's representative. Ivan twists slightly and peers at the Canadian with an unwavering smile and such intense scrutiny that the hairs on Matthew's arms rise.

"Something is wrong with little Canada?" It is a question that isn't a question, but a statement of fact with the expectation of a decent answer.

"Do I need a reason to come and visit your city?" Matthew returns honestly and Ivan's eyes twinkle happily. His voice softens even further, "it's so beautiful here."

"Da, it is, but I sense that you did not come to appreciate the architecture."

Perhaps it is the complete emotional exhaustion, or having all of Ivan's considerable attention focused on him, or the physical tiredness of one who has not been able to properly sleep in years - whatever the reason, Matthew's eyes burn and he heaves a sigh. "Russia..." he breathes and his voice catches in his throat. Forcing himself to look back at the taller, broader nation, he is met with an unfamiliar look of distress.

"Please, Canada. Matvei, do not cry," Ivan says quickly, softly, eyes wide with surprise as he shifts his weight. "It is weak... and it reminds me of my sister."

"I'm not crying," Matthew says flatly and holds his head up, willing gravity not to pull the threatening droplets downward. To no avail; a tear falls behind his ear and he flushes hotly.

"This is not something your idiot brother could help with?"

Something between a cough and a laugh escape. "I don't want any help with this. There is no 'this'. I'm fine. I just needed, um, just n-need to..." He turns to Ivan with an unintentionally supplicating look.

The elder nation sighs and stands, facing Matthew with the buttons of his tan jacket. He takes the blonde's chin in the smooth leather of his gloves and Matthew gulps but puts up no resistance as his face is tilted further. Ivan bends down slightly, enough to look Matthew right in the eyes. "Something very bad?" he inquires with dark childishness, violet orbs scanning past the Canadian's defenses as if seeking out the depths of his heart.

As Matthew shakes his head, Ivan's smile returns. "Good. If I have kept myself from claiming your territory as my own, well, the thought of someone else coming along and _taking you_... it gives me a bad feeling. Very bad, indeed."

Matthew wilts into the bench. "No, nobody has talked of... of invading me in the past hundred years, give or take."

"I did not mean Canada, exactly." At Matthew's widening eyes and small gasp, Ivan's hand tightens on his jaw. The Canadian shakes his head vehemently, but tears clung to his lashes all the same. Ivan sighs.

"There was a time when I would have craved that look on your face - the one you wear right now. And I will admit, seeing you like this..." His body tenses under the thick coat but his eyes remain calm, for which Matthew is immeasurably grateful. "It takes much restraint. If it is not your brother who bothers you... So, then, Denmark?"

Matthew sputters, cheeks burning. "_Quoi_? How did you know?"

Ivan blinks and releases Matthew's face, but does not move away. "Some of us pay attention in meetings," he admonishes, with a nerve-wracking smile. "I cannot imagine that Denmark has, well... Ah, how to say this? He knows how to take. You understand, da?"

He shakes his head, blonde waves whipping his face.

"Perhaps that is why... I will be blunt. There are many nations who want some part of you, yes? Your country, your body." Matthew shivers, very thankful for his military. "Denmark does not simply want diplomatic relations for the betterment of your economies.

A huge sweeping wave of relief crashes over Matthew. "Oh, just sex?" he breathes with a goofy smile.

Ivan stiffens and throws him a confused look. "...what?"

Matthew winks; a weight lifted from his shoulders, the sun twinkling in his mauve eyes. "You have met my papa, non?"

The faintest flush graces Ivan's pale cheeks. "He - you -"

"No, no, but thanks to Francis, I am... skilled in the art of declining." Matthew stretches, stands, as Ivan regains his typical smile.

"Well, Matvei. We shall see. He is not to be underestimated. And, as I am certain you know, neither am I. The next time you come to visit, you will announce your presence with the appropriate legal documentation."

"Yes," Matthew smiles and gives Ivan a friendly pat on his thick, muscular arm. "Thank you."

* * *

NATO meetings.

Arctic Council meetings.

Nation World Meetings.

One-on-one meetings about trade, investment, and even, if he stretched it, Greenland's self-governance.

Mathias rolls onto his side, staring at the shadowy depths of the bedroom wall.

He meets with the Canadian at least a dozen times a year, and they are even in direct communication through email; formal, maybe, but the link is there. So, it would not take too much of an effort to get Matthew alone to discuss - no, there has already been far too much discussion about Hans Island. This is personal.

Mathias traces the curve of his mattress with an easy smile. How would he lead the conversation? _Hey cutie, take me out for beers?_ Yes, that would certainly work. Matthew is cute and they both like beer.

And Lars? Well, Lars be damned, Mathias wants Matthew. (And free beer, but mostly the Canadian.)

"Matthew," he rolls the name around on his tongue experimentally, approving of the way it sounds.

Even if he hasn't actually had the chance to talk to Matthew about it, what is to say that the beautiful blonde didn't have the same need gnawing at him, making it impossible for him to sleep at night, too? After all, their nations are engaged. When he finally takes those cool, soft hands in his own, sparks will fly. Their lips will melt together, they will feel the synchronicity of their heartbeats as he pulls Matthew against his chest and watches those beautiful eyes flutter closed as the boy surrendered his body, his breath, his being.

That, he decides as he closes his eyes and pulls the covers tight around his chest, will be the most amazing, magical moment.

"I'll just be myself," he reasons with an honest grin before falling into the first decent sleep he has had in years.


	3. Second

_Please bear in mind that Mathias is not that which I hear people referring to as "bipolar". (But, as always, things are be darkest before the light.) This will be the last we see of Lars for awhile and the Nordic Five are slated to appear in the next chapter. Yay Scandinavia! Also, the last smuttiness for a bit, too. Thank you all for reading, I appreciate you - yes, you! - for taking the time. I am so, so very grateful for it. :)  
_

* * *

**An Awkward Courtship**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

From: "Densen, Mathias"

To: "Williams, Matthew"

Subject: Meeting

_Canada,_

_Do you have time for an informal meeting after the conference in Copenhagen on the 14th?_

_Sincerely,_

_M. Densen_

_Kongeriget Danmark._

Matthew smiles at the bear sprawled across his mousepad as Kumajiro lazily waves a paw at the screen and inquires: "Who?"

"A booty call if I've ever seen one," he laughs, a slender brow raised in thought. "Blunt, for sure, but that's just - I mean, it's so obvious."

"France?" Kumajiro cocks his head.

"Hah!" Matthew ruffles the bear's fur. "Less poetic. Denmark."

A flicker of memory alights in the bear's eyes as Kumajiro licks his muzzle contemplatively. "Kind of smells like fishes?"

Matthew starts to shake his head but pauses to reconsider. What _does_ Denmark smell like, anyway? He sees the man enough, but even when their bosses meet one-on-one, they rarely exchange more than pleasantries and maybe a good-natured wink. The thought is almost funny: two nations, stuck in stasis - engaged, in a manner of speaking, but their representatives have not had a man-to-man talk in... oh, _ever_.

The Canadian flexes his fingers and rests them on the keyboard for a moment. He ignores his fluttering heart and frowns as Russia's understated warning reverberates in his mind. Matthew must admit, there is just something about the excitable, carefree nation that affects him in a way he would much rather push aside; there is always more important work to be done (or camping, or hockey, or hanging out with Alfred).

"Kuma..." Matthew starts, only to notice that the bear has fallen asleep atop a pile of foreign policy analysis papers. He strokes the bear's soft fur and furrows his brow, forcing himself to be honest. "I actually ran away from this. Silly, eh?"

_I owe it to the people of both of our countries and to Denmark, himself, to at least have a talk. The sooner this is over with, the better. And an informal talk is usually the best way to get it all out on the table, so what better way to settle things than over drinks?_

(He still has to blink several times and steady his hands before typing.)

From: "Williams, Matthew"

To: "Densen, Mathias"

Subject: RE: Meeting this month

_Mr. Densen,_

_I promised Alfred I'd play some touch [North American] football with him on that afternoon. (Nothing intense, considering as per how our rules are somewhat different... as are the pitch lengths, but that's neither here nor there, so really, it will just be a game of catch.)_

_But, if you have no objections, we can meet in the evening. Alfred and I are staying in the same hotel, so it ought not be a problem. Would you like to meet over beer and dinner? Or just beer?_

_Thank you, merci bien._

_Matthew Williams._

_Canada._

One studious proofread and a fulfilling click later - having decided to keep the whole rambling about football bit in after much debate and an irritated shrug from a polar bear - the email is sent. Matthew's pulse speeds in his wrists and his skin is overly sensitive, he notices as he brushes against his thigh.

He takes a deep breath and forces his hands to stop shaking. "Why now?" he whispers to one of the many panoramic Canadian calendars decorating the home office walls.

13:11

**Is it too late to come over?**

Matthew snaps the laptop shut and skips the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. He pulls open a drawer and grabs an undershirt before shaking his head in disdain and places it back. His beloved hoodie, casually discarded at the foot of the bed, isn't on the agenda for this evening, either. No, this is _wardrobe_ time. Violet eyes grow luminous as they land on target, and, with a wicked grin, a nice plaid dress shirt is quickly passed over in favour of an unassuming polo that bears **I LOVE AMSTERDAM **in bold black lettering.

With a smile, he pulls on the shirt and looks down at his laundry-day jeans. They are tighter than is typical, and Matthew blushes slightly as he considers the purpose of his visit. He runs a hand through his hair and accidentally-on-purpose brushes his errant curl; Matthew's face flushes and he immediately experiences an intense need to be in the Netherlands as soon as possible.

As Matthew diligently brushes his teeth, his phone vibrates against his leg. He pulls it out quickly and the accompanying tightness in his pants is embarrassingly immediate.

13:22

**Come over.**

That is all the encouragement he needs. Matthew hustles to the kitchen, grabs some moose meat out of the deep freeze, and positions it on a generous bed of newspaper. "I'm going out for awhile, Kumatini."

The bear plods into the kitchen and sits on his haunches, a knowing gleam bright in his dark eyes. "Who?"

"Canada," Matthew mutters distractedly as he crosses to the entryway, on the hunt for nice shoes.

"No, _who_?"

Matthew pauses mid-step. His bear has never questioned him like that, and the implications cause his hair stand on end and his words to get all jumbled. "_Non_, _quoi_? How - what? Who did you..."

"Denmark?" Kumajiro supplies.

_What?_

"Not Denmark!" Matthew sputters and grabs the nearest pair of shoes with shaking hands. "Lars. You know, _Lars_."

"Oh. The mushroom man."

"Kumajomo, you weren't supposed to eat those."

The bear snuffles and sends Matthew a haughty look. "It was them or your pants."

"Goodbye. Be good. You can sleep on the bed, but please do wash the moose off your paws and face first."

"Bye, mister."

Matthew shuts the door and takes a moment to try and collect himself, gradually allowing himself a smile into the crisp air as he inhales the earthy scent of falling leaves. He flexes his shoulders, compelling his body to relax, and wills his front porch to slip away into something more Dutch_._

Seconds later, Matthew opens his eyes and a familiar staggering feeling hits him straight in the stomach. He lifts his arm experimentally and runs his hand along the smooth door of Lars' Grachtengordel abode; a beautiful 18th century house - very vertical, well-maintained, and compact.

Matthew briefly considers the lateness of the hour as he attempts to catch his breath. One knock in, the door sweeps open just in time for his fist to be caught in a large palm. He crumples against Lars, who proceeds to wrap an arm around his back and pull him inside the cozy foyer.

"You look awful, _lievard_," Lars states, directing his guest into a high-backed chair.

Matthew's head reels and he sits in silence for a moment before chuckling. "Even in this shirt?" he teases.

A pair of impassive emerald eyes scan Matthew thoroughly and Lars raises an eyebrow. "Amsterdam's fond of what's underneath."

The blonde grins despite his feverish blush and allows his eyes to roam freely over the tall, muscular nation. "Canada wouldn't mind finding out just how fond you are," he returns a little breathlessly, but meets Lars' stare head-on all the same.

Lars says nothing. Apparently having judged Matthew to be well enough to stand, he pulls the blonde up and off the chair, only to sit down in the vacated spot. Matthew remains quiet, hot under the heavy-lidded gaze, and twists the bottom of his shirt apprehensively.

"I could come on stronger," he murmurs whilst pushing the tall brunette back against the chair and planting himself firmly on Lars' lap.

"Whatever you're doing is working pretty well so far," he admits roughly. Matthew gasps as a much-desired swell presses against his thigh, but his surprise quickly morphs into playfulness as he kisses teasingly up Lars' throat. As he rakes his fingers through the styled hair, Matthew smiles knowingly as Lars gulps, then responds in kind by twisting Matthew's curl around his finger and tugging gently.

Matthew's glasses have fogged over amidst heavy breaths and short moans, so he tosses them to floor and busies himself by kneading the muscles of Lars' bare arms. "Thanks for having me over," he mumbles through kisses.

"It's been awhile, Matt," Lars mumbles as he slips his hands under Matthew's shirt and is rewarded with a shiver and a bite on the shoulder. With a slight smirk, Lars rolls his hips as they break the kiss just long enough to remove Matthew's shirt. Before their lips met again, Matthew moans and tugs at the offending article separating his fingers and warm skin, and is met with a chuckle. "Eager beaver."

Matthew pulls away and locks their lust-hazed gazes. He grabs a hold of the shirt and directs it up and over Lars' muscular torso. "I need you so much," he murmurs into the receptive mouth. Lars grips Matthew by the hips and the Canadian squirms to distract himself from the skilled touch. "N-no, I mean, _s'il te plaît, je t'en prie._"

The feeling of Lars' smile against his cheek sets Matthew's nerves on fire, and he retaliates by tracing circles across broad shoulders. "Keep touching me like that and we won't make it to the bedroom."

"Do we have t-to make it to the -" Matthew is cut short as he is lifted into the air, and instinctively draws his legs around Lars' hips as soon as he starts walking.

"I don't want us getting my sitting room untidy tonight," he says and stops to emphasize his seriousness.

Matthew takes advantage of the pause by pushing his weight forward and sending them both against the stairwell wall. He slips out of the secure hold and promptly divests Lars of his pants, letting them pool to the ground. A soft, deep noise issues from over Matthew's head as Lars collects himself long enough to say: "Not here, Matt. Stairs aren't safe."

Neither of them move to change their positions; rather, Lars runs one hand through Matthew's hair and the other across his neck to skim his shoulders, and Matthew chokes back a series of moans under the touch. He fights to keep his voice even before his lips curl into a mischievous grin as he growls: "I promise not to make a mess, unless you want me to be absolutely _filthy_."

That does it. In a heartbeat, Matthew is lifted and pressed against the wall and held firmly in place. "Dirty talking... low blow," Lars grumbles before proceeding to catch the crook of his creamy neck in his mouth.

"No," Matthew whispers as he slides out of the strong grasp, taking the boxers with him as he sinks to the floor, "this is a low blow." In one fluid movement, he takes Lars' slick erection in his mouth and is met with a low moan of appreciation. Matthew grins inwardly as he traces the prominent vein with his tongue and is rather pleased with himself; that is, until his head is pushed back. He reluctantly opens his eyes and glances up, only for the look on Lars' face to light a desperate fire in his stomach. Matthew's skin turns to gooseflesh at the hard-pressed restraint written in those eyes.

A moment of silent understanding passes. Slowly, Matthew releases Lars, stands, and takes his hand. Any attempts to ignore the urgency - the casual pace, stifling their heavy breathing - are complete undermined when they reach the bedroom door and Matthew pounces hungrily. Pushing the taller of the two nations back to topple onto the bed with severe single-mindedness, Matthew climbs astride Lars to trail wet and determined kisses anywhere he can reach. A deep rumble only serves to edge him closer to his own desperate need to release; Matthew doesn't stop, _can't_ stop, to ponder why he is so full of need, why he craves to be touched. His instinct has gotten him this far and he is not about to jeopardize it by _thinking_.

"M-_ah_-tt." His name, mumbled sensuously from somewhere over his head, hardly registers. A sudden, sharp pain breaks through a hazy barrier of lust as Lars pulls on Matthew's hair curl in a surefire measure of immobility. Stunned with sensory overload, Matthew can only pause and watch with heated desire as the stately brunette gets out from under him and makes quick work of Matthew's clothing. "You're pretty worked up tonight," Lars smirks at the bright orange boxers dangling from his fingers. "Were you planning on switching it up?"

Matthew unabashedly eyes the curves of Lars' defined haunches but finds himself shaking his head despite the tempting offer. "Lars, p-please..." he whispers, knuckles white against the folds of the sheets.

"Please?" The word is followed by a thrilling, taunting chuckle. "Please what?"

Heat radiates from Matthew's cheeks as he shifts his gaze to the ceiling to recover his breath, scrambling for anything resembling modesty. The sound of Lars sliding open a drawer hardly captures his attention, but slick fingers gliding up his thigh is more than enough to bring all of Matthew's focus firmly to his aching groin. He gasps as one lubed digit effortlessly presses inside. "Not enough," he pants, face scrunched in anticipation.

Lars chuckles and positions himself on one forearm. "You should see yourself. I'm going to have you twice," he promises into mussed blonde waves and presses a kiss to Matthew's forehead. "Three times, maybe? Once just won't be enough."

With cheeks burning and body trembling, the concept of embarrassment is forgotten; Matthew's body is afire. Lars kisses him once more and runs a soothing hand up Matthew's sides to distract from the sudden entry of the second and third fingers. He squirms and muffles a moan into Lars' shoulders.

"I know you can take it," Lars offers, impervious to the pressure of Matthew's fingers scrambling for purchase on his back.

"Not enough," Matthew repeats, groaning as Lars makes a beckoning motion, shooting pleasure through his body. "_Crisse - _Lars - f-fuck!"

"Please..." Lars murmurs, sitting up slightly and running his free hand over Matthew's throbbing erection. " ...what?"

Matthew stills fractionally as he tries to formulate a sentence. "_Je t'ai besoin_," he manages, and is relieved to see Lars straining with the need to comply - his body tense, paralyzing Matthew with the view - but the brunette doesn't withdraw his fingers.

"Pick a language," Lars teases in a whisper.

"Not - _mmph_ - not funny," Matthew grimaces, caught in a half moan. Lars brings him to the brink of orgasm with a few easy strokes and the just the right amount of pressure, only to remove both hands and quickly gather the blonde's wrists. Matthew thrashes uselessly against the covers and keens. "Fine! Please fuck me, Lars, _now_."

No sooner are the words out of his mouth that Lars, already positioned, drives into Matthew. Lars exhales slowly and fully sheathes himself, carefully watching Matthew's face for protest.

"Can I move?"

"Oh, _oh_, please do -" Matthew's mouth is parted and his eyes are hazy and half-lidded.

Lars bites his lip and Matthew traces his jaw, his neck, his shoulders, everything he can touch, because the sensation of contact is overwhelming and perfect. He smiles as his lover sets a quick pace, only to melt into the sheets as his vision wavers and his body tenses. Lars grabs a hold of his hips to angle him upwards and within seconds, Matthew comes hard. Issuing a soft moan, Lars abruptly shifts to throw Matthew's legs over his shoulders in order to thrust deeper. Matthew's mouth opens to offer silent moans; his body is beyond sensitive and he is well past the point of gasping encouragement. The rhythm becomes faster and more erratic until Matthew is filled with warmth and becomes all choked moans and arched back. Letting Matthew's legs fall away, Lars collapses to the blonde's side with a remarkable amount of grace.

Matthew tries for a smile of satisfaction, but he knows his eyes are filled with pleading and he can't help but make an awkward sort of noise. Lars impassively scans his body and quirks an eyebrow at Matthew's quick and straining recovery. With a slick hand, he pumps - slowly, at first, then in with a delightfully tight fist that leaves Matthew flushed and panting until he messily climaxes again all over his own stomach.

Each nation representatives pulls away, satisfied, but still quick to catch one another's yearning gazes. It is Matthew who speaks first. "I'm going to have shower, okay?" he asks, smiling, and leaving the invitation completely open-ended. "If I can make it there without my legs giving out on me."

Lars' smile brightens his already glowing face, and makes a decent effort to stand, pulling Matthew up with him. "I'll join you in a minute," he says as they reach the washroom and he turns on the water. "I did promise seconds, right?"

Matthew wobbles gratefully into the steam. He beams guiltily into his own shoulder, knowing full well that Lars would be spending this time collecting their clothing, changing the sheets, and doing whatever else needed to be done in order to restore his home to its spotless glory. The Canadian pushes damp, clinging tendrils out of his face as he absently wonders what is taking the sexy nation so long to join him in this bliss.

When Lars does arrive, Matthew instinctively feels as if something has changed, even if he is standing directly under the showerhead and not making eye contact - he _knows_. Lars is tense as he steps into the water. The blonde's welcoming smile falters into confusion as the tall brunette reaches an arm over his shoulder and plants his palm onto the tiled wall.

"Matt, I'm not complaining, but why are you here? I mean, tonight, specifically," he clarifies seriously.

"I needed you. To be with you? So much." Matthew knows his confusion must be showing by the way Lars scans the furrow of his brow, searching for answers in his guileless face. Matthew fights to keep his eyes from sliding shut due to the steamy warmth of the room, because whatever is wrong, it must be important. (But it is ever so nice when his lover's hair falls victim to the water and slicks itself to his face. He reaches out to trace the wet tendrils that cling to Lars' cheeks, but catches himself just in time and forces himself to meet the green gaze.) "What's wrong, Lars?"

The taller of the two is silent. He cups the blonde's face and Matthew gives in to his impulse and strokes away the wet hair as he closes his eyes and relaxes against the welcome coolness of the tile until there is a soft insistence against his lips; Lars' mouth quietly asks for acceptance, and he obliges by melting into the kiss and pulling them together into an embrace.

"Lars, tell me," Matthew asks into the crook of Lars' water-slick neck.

"I should have expected it, but I really didn't think it would go this far or last this long," he states flatly against Matthew's forehead.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Did I do s-something wrong?" Matthew stammers, heart pounding, an ominous feeling of dread overtaking his senses.

Smoothing his hands over Matthew's cheeks, Lars shushes him with a look. "I just got a message."

"Yes, no, sorry, I understand entirely. Um, only not at all?"

"Something about how Canada will be his," Lars mumbles with uncharacteristic vagueness.

Matthew feels as though his heart has dropped into his stomach as he takes a reassuring breath. "Who said that? Who?"

Lars offers no more than an unreadable stare in response.

"Who?" he insists, poorly suppressing his agitation. "Lars, _dis-moi qui... qui.._. Oh. _Denmark_? Denmark said that?"

Lars grimaces and laces their fingers together. "Yes."

"No. There's more." Matthew hopes that later he will appreciate how Lars, of all people, is willing to lie to him, but at the moment his mind is awash with numbness.

"You're right. He said 'enjoy fucking my Canada while you can'."

A long pause passes wherein the blonde tries to remember how to breathe.

"_'My Canada'_? Oh, when I get my hands on him I-I'm going to... um, I'll -"

"It's okay," Lars says, and securely held by one arm, Matthew finds it difficult to want to argue. "You don't have to go all America and start making death threats. It's a big turn-off."

"You thought I was using you?" he asks, gentleness overcoming outrage.

Lars appears ready to shake his head, but pauses mid-motion. "Don't get upset. It's no bother, but you are using me. Using me using you," he adds playfully, effectively rendering Matthew wide-eyed and speechless. Lars offers a genuine, soft smile. "I really don't mind. And, honestly, when I think of whatever hell _Danmark_ must be going through, how could I be mad? But Matt, once Matthias makes up his mind, there's no listening to reason."

"You're just giving up on me?" Matthew challenges with the strongest glare he can muster. "So easily?"

"Don't take it like that," Lars chastises and runs his hands up and down the Canadian's body in a way that provokes a shiver despite himself. "You can come to me whenever you want. You know that. Just to spend time together like we used to, yeah? I like you. I wouldn't send you thousands and thousands of flowers every year if I didn't."

Matthew makes a strangled choking noise and Lars sighs and pulls on the long errant curl sharply. With a sharp whimper, Matthew actually does crumple to his knees. Lars swiftly helps him up, unimpressed. "I like you," he repeats sternly. "I want what's best for you, and right now, that would probably be us spending the next couple of days figuring out what to do about Matthias."

Lost in gratitude and a plethora of other feelings, Matthew comes back to reality at a nudge against his hip and he coughs out a laugh. "Sorry?"

"I didn't say we'd spend the whole time thinking," Lars says lowly against his forehead, "did I?"

Matthew moans as the embrace evolves into a tangle of limbs as he finds himself folded at the waist, hands planted firmly against the shower wall, kisses trailing down his spine.

* * *

Almost three weeks of tactical planning (and food, and drugs, and sex, the focus shifted, depending on the mood) has prepared Matthew for this moment. He is ready, he has to be, because time doesn't slow for anyone's personal agenda.

He forces himself to sit uncomfortably still through the conference. Part-way through a rousing speech delivered by an overly-caffeinated Alfred, Lars rolls his eyes and Matthew can't resist a smile. Together, they have concluded that it would be in everyone's best interests if Matthew just meet with Matthias and get it over with as quickly as possible. And while the plan had seemed solid enough in theory, it certainly doesn't quell the unease churning his stomach as the Canadian braves a glace at the Dane.

He has to admit, Matthias is _sexy_.

As a matter of fact, just looking at the black tie and crimson shirt is enough to make Matthew wonder about the body underneath. He desperately doesn't want to admit it, not even in the darkest corners of his mind, but Lars had had a point; of course he did, he has seen this kind of situation before. The chemistry between nations could be explosive, though usually not in a good way, depending on who was involved.

In one otherwise unremarkable moment, a sparkling blue gaze and a wide smile fall right on Matthew. Just the fleeting look Matthew allows himself before he quickly casts his eyes anywhere but the Nordic side of the table, sends sparks flying through his body. Looking over to Lars, Matthew watches as he fails to conceal something between a smirk and a grimace.

_Yeah, that's pretty much how I feel, too._

* * *

Ultimately, Matthew's meeting notes are a handful of hardly-legible scribbles.

* * *

Before he can even stand up, Alfred's arms wrap firmly around his shoulders.

"Didn't forget the pigskin toss, did ya?"

Matthew tries to hide his smile behind a stern show of adjusting his glasses. "I do not want a repeat of baseball," he says seriously.

Alfred grins. "What?"

"Oh nevermind. Kumakiko can be our ref - " Matthew looks at the bear for confirmation and Kumajiro snuffles. He takes that as an affirmative, and addresses him directly: "If Al is mean, you can bite him in the ankle."

"I'm never mean, Mattie!"

Hardly half an hour later, a battered Matthew pulls the tiny, resolute polar bear off of his brother's leg. Alfred naturally laughs it off and the game is put on indefinite hold. Matthew helps his brother back to his room without being too obvious about offering assistance. It is nice to do regular brother things, he thinks as he twirls the ball in his hand and heads to his own room, like tossing a football around and helping to dress polar bear-inflicted wounds.

Clicking the door shut behind him, Matthew winces; he had been mostly joking about the biting thing. Kumajiro shoots him a pointed look and Matthew heaves a sigh, unwraps a couple of pounds of somewhat smelly herring, and dumps it in the bathtub. (They had learned the hard way that housekeepers do not take kindly to finding blood or fat or scales around the room or ingrained in the carpet.)

He takes a breath and considers Lars' advice. When Matthew had said that he really had no idea how to dress for a meeting like this - this _whatever it is_, Lars had suggested wearing whatever he feels the most comfortable in. The frayed-nerved nation representative has a quick shower, dresses in his trusty hoodie and a pair of comfortable jeans, and wills himself to be calm. Stepping onto the small balcony, he slides the glass door shut behind him and wills himself to Mathias' house.

"Be good," he reminds Kumajiro faintly, fully aware that the bear cannot hear him, as he slips out of the hotel and collapses on a doorstep that is eerily similar to Lars'. If he were less inclined to vomit all over the step, he would probably spare the situation a wry grin. When he has recovered his breath, he rests a hand on the wooden door.

_You can't put this off forever_.

Matthew knocks with a decisiveness he does not feel.

* * *

"Hi border buddy!" Mathias exclaims, at once swinging the door open and sweeping Canada's nation representative inside.

The thick fabric of Matthew's shirt is cool to the touch and Mathias catches the briefest scent of campfire and ocean. Struggling to not double over at how overwhelming his presence is, he whisks Matthew through the foyer, hardly giving him time to remove his shoes.

"This is the dining room," he says, setting a quick pace - there will be plenty of time to show him around later, after they have spoken. Mathias resolutely averts his gaze from his guest, unsure of what he'll find himself admitting to the beautiful, sweet creature who haunts his thoughts. "... kitchen, the linen cupboard, Icey, Norge, Finny, and Sve's old rooms, and _this- _" he says proudly, ushering Matthew in, "- is my office!"

"A grand tour in under thirty seconds? I'm impressed."

Mathias steels his nerve and whirls around with a bright smile. He is met with the sight of Matthew seating himself in one of the comfortable chairs, facing his beautiful wooden desk. Behind the glint of his glasses, Matthew's large violet eyes light up as he marvels at the craftsmanship of almost everything in the room.

_Say something. _

Matthias observes the way Matthew speaks, but he can't bring himself to listen to the words; instead, all he can do is focus on the small dimple close to Matthew's mouth when he smiles and the way his golden curls frame his face.

_No, really, say something. Anything, really, just stop staring at him._

_Close eyes._

_Open mouth. Words. Make some words._

"Yeah." Matthias strolls over to his desk and perches on it, trying to ignore the rapid pace of his heart. He offers a grin and a wink. "It's nice stuff. But looking at the furniture? To think, I dressed up for nothing. Tsk tsk."

Matthew looks genuinely surprised and Mathias thinks he could eventually die a happy man if he could spend the rest of his phenomenally long life finding new ways to get the Canadian to keep making that face. "So, Denmark -"

"Denmark? It would be nice if you could call me by my name. We are engaged, after all." Mathias carefully gauges Matthew's reaction before proceeding; his eyes are unfocused and his lips are parted just so. He allows himself a fraction of relief and when he speaks, he makes sure it sounds gentle and inviting. "You can call me Matthias, okay? And I will call you Matthew. Or do you prefer wife-to-be?"

Matthew snaps to attention, all hard lines under his loose-fitting clothing, and throws up his hands defensively. "Matthew is fine. Or Matt. Matthieu, Matteo, Williams, moose, maple anything... um, I suppose I answer to anything, really."

"So, honestly," he says, grinning at Matthew's progressive loss of coherency. "How do you feel about all of this? I mean, you - you, Matthew?"

His only consolation to feeling so excited (he had checked in the mirror several times earlier to ensure that he at least looked normal, and had even asked the rest of the Nordics individually, which had yielded an impressive variety of responses) is that Matthew is pink-tinged, with pupils far too dilated for the light to warrant, and offering no quick and easy answer.

"I - well, that is to say..." Matthew mumbles, fidgeting with his sleeves, edging closer on his chair. Mathias takes a breath and glances at the empty fireplace in an effort to distract himself and to allow his guest the time to come up with an answer. But after several painstaking heartbeats and for all of his noble intentions, he allows himself a sidelong glance at the blonde.

Matthew is still and, much to Mathias' glee, his brilliant gaze is fixed on his mouth. " ...I don't think I mind."

"Oh?" Mathias relaxes against the desk, folds his arms loosely across his chest, and cocks his head with a smile.

Without missing a beat and without lifting his eyes, Matthew says: "and you?"

"I'm going to be your husband," he chirps firmly.

"And what are your expectations? About marriage? To me?" Matthew asks, looking for all the world as if the words had come as a complete surprise to him.

Cheating his shoulders forward a little, Mathias looks Matthew right in the eyes and takes a moment to appreciate that those beautiful swirls of violet and blue will be his to look at for years to come. Matthew blinks but does not look away.

"Fidelity," he says, much faster than he had intended. His eyes narrow slightly as he keeps his eyes trained on his fiance and feels a rush flood to the bottom of his stomach as he watches Matthew bite his lip just so.

"So," Matthias adds in a bid to refocus. "Lars."

Matthew turns a brilliant, defying shade of scarlet.

"If you're going to be my wife, you will be faithful only to me, do you understand?"

"Would you -" Matthew starts, his voice shaky but undeniably controlled as he leaves his chair and approaches the desk. Mathias watches wordlessly as Matthew trails over and comes close enough that, were he uncross his arms, Mathias could run his hands through his hair and down his neck and - "_will_ you be faithful to me?"

"_Min elskede_," Mathias begins, bringing a stable hand to Matthew's face and brushing a few golden strands from his glasses. He is rewarded with a blink and a doe-eyed stare. "May Vár witness that I will not think about or look at another for as long as I have you."

"Oh," he whispers. Mathias doesn't move his hand from the warm skin, and, after a moment of hesitation, Matthew mirrors the touch. "Sorry, I thought maybe..."

"Not dreaming. At least, I hope not."

"I felt like I was going crazy," Matthew admits with a small smile as Mathias rubs small circles on his cheekbone.

"Me too," he says softly, but he frowns as the hoodie sleeve falls loosely to Matthew's elbow to reveal a blotchy bruise marring his forearm.

"I actually..." Matthew starts, nervously gathering his breath. "I was just going out of my mind. I mean, I just took off, maybe to get some perspective, so I went to Russia, _Russia_, can you imagine -"

In one swift, easy shove, the heavy desk crashes to the floor, leaving Mathias crouched over Matthew with one foot planted firmly on his chest. His lips settle in a thin line as his heart breaks.

"You went to Ivan?" Mathias' own voice barely registers as detestable images flood his mind. He hisses in revulsion at the bruise. His vision blurs and his heart thunders in his veins. "He was _gentle_, I see. Does Lars not treat you roughly enough?"

Matthew coughs- a painful, racking sound. Mathias presses his heel down harder and twists it into the Canadian's chest to assess the amount of damage that must have been done to his whole body. The pathetic figure starts to flicker and cough. He reaches for Matthew, hauls him upwards, and shoves him against the office wall. "Not on me, you don't. Your little invisibility trick doesn't work."

The boy, he notes with abject surprise as the body falls limp in his hands, is surprisingly light A tangle of hair obscures his face and, despite his frustration, Mathias wants nothing more than to push the golden strands away and look into the mauve lights of his eyes. He steels himself; he can't afford that level of benevolence - not now, not when it would be so easy to let down his defenses.

Matthew sputters and something wet speckle Mathias' face. He wipes his jaw with the back of his free hand, only for the world to grind to a halt.

Blood.

He shoves Matthew's head back, trying to ignore the bent frames of his glasses, and looks at the welt that has blossomed over a silky eyebrow, weeping red. Matthew's body spasms under his fingers as he coughs again - more blood.

Blood, blood, his blood, and all of it Mathias' fault.

Matthew crumples to the floor. Mathias takes the heavy head in his hands and exhales slowly, assessing the damage.

* * *

Translations:

- _merci bien -_ "thanks" (informal), French.

- _Lieverd_ - Dutch term of endearment.

- _Crisse_ - "Christ", Quebecois curse.

- _Je t'ai besoin - _"I need you", French.

- _s'il te plaît, je t'en prie__ - _"please, I beg you" (like please, _please_), French.

- _Min elskede = "_my beloved", Danish.

- _dis-moi qui... qui.._. - "tell me who... who...", French.


End file.
